


White

by onlytrueemilie



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:28:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29374611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlytrueemilie/pseuds/onlytrueemilie
Summary: This is something I wrote for an assignement in school... I don't even know. English isn't my first language so be lenient with my mistakes.
Kudos: 1





	White

White 

The room was white. Everything inside the room was white too: the bed, the table, the chair, the walls, the floor, even he was white. Thinking rationally, he knew that his hair was black and his eyes were green, but he felt so colourless, that sometimes he couldn’t believe himself any longer, even if he was standing right in front of a mirror. He surely remembered colours like blue and green and yellow, but he hadn’t seen them for so long. Sometimes he thought, they were just a morbid product of his fantasy. Fantasy, another thing that was missing from his white room. But honestly, he didn’t care. Because he had one reminder of reality, that saved him from ultimate insanity: his scars. His left wrist full with ugly, padded scars. They were pink and when he looked at them, he could remember colour red, his blood coming down his forearm and dripping from his elbow. It was beautiful. He loved to sit there and watch his blood flowing. That’s why he was in the white room. They said, white would make it easier to calm down, to think. After years in this room, he couldn’t believe those lies anymore. White was disgusting, white left no room for anything but the truth, and yet, white was empty, it was literally nothing, it just had no depth in it, no reflexion, just nothing. It was driving him crazy. He shut his eyes firmly, didn’t wanted to see his room anymore. The problem was, even behind his eyelids, everything was painfully light. He tried to picture the room he had lived in before, but he failed. Sighing he went to the bed and threw himself on it. He pressed his face into his pillow and just laid there, tried to fall asleep. After a while, he felt the refreshing blackness reach for him, engulf him. He removed all of the tension in his strained body and allowed a little smile to creep on his face.

His mom was carrying him in her arms. She walked into his bedroom and put him gently onto his queen-sized bed. He grabbed his favourite pillow and clung to it, like a baby monkey to his mother. Mommy smiled at him. “Wait here”, she said, “I’ll be right back with your bedtime story book, okay?” He nodded sleepily and turned his face towards the ceiling. His dad, when he had still been with them, had painted it dark blue. Later he had stuck a few noctilucent stars on the wall, after he had complained about his room being too dark now. The stars eradiated a soft light and he couldn’t help but smile at the peaceful scene. When his mom poked her head into the room, he had fallen asleep. She kissed his forehead and left quietly. In the middle of the night he woke up and heard heartbreaking sobs. He hopped off his bed and stumbled to his mommy’s room. He opened the door with a little creak. All of the window shutters were closed. His mom was sitting in a corner, crying. He went to her and laid his chubby hand on her wet cheek. “Mama?” he asked unsure and she raised her head. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen from crying. He sat down timidly beside her and took her hand in his. Suddenly he felt something warm running down his arm. Swallowing, he slowly looked at the floor. The room was dark but where he was sitting with his mommy it was even darker. His trousers were soaked with a liquid. He carefully dipped his finger in the puddle and licked at it. A metallic taste exploded in his mouth. Terrified he got up and ran to the door, to switch on the lights. The first thing he saw was blood, he was literally covered in it. Panic rose up in him as he turned around and looked at his mom. She was pale and panting heavily. A shiny something beneath her caught his attention. It was a knife, the big one he had never been allowed to touch, because it was so sharp. He could see traces of red on the blade. Suddenly calm he walked back to his mother and took her arms, forced her to show them to him. Both of her wrists were sliced, so deep, he could see the whiteness of her bones shimmer through the flesh. It was in this very moment he knew he would always, always, hate this colour. Finally, the realisation hit him, hard, and he sunk to his knees. “Why?” he sobbed desperately. “WHY!” he cried, his voice hard and nearly cracking. She didn’t answer. She just kept looking at him with her hollow eyes. He whimpered and curled himself into a ball. He laid there so long, he completely lost track of time. Eventually, he straightened himself up again and arranged his clothes. With a blank face he went to the door. Right before leaving the room, he turned to the nearly death woman in the darkest corner of the bedroom. “I hate you, mother,” he said coldly, “with my very core. I detest every part of the pathetic being you are.” For the first time since he had come into his mother’s room, he saw something twinkle in her eyes. She smiled at him, a morbid parody of the gentle smile he loved so much. “I know, dear, I know,” she whispered and suddenly her fragile body was shaking from the silent tears that were running down her cheeks. “I do too.”

He was woken up by one of the nurses. She came into his room with a dinner tray. She gently placed it on his bedside table. When she left again, she flashed him a little smile. He tried to smile back. Although he was pretty sure it looked more like a grimace, she seemed to appreciate it. He took the tray from the table and peeped into one of the bowls. He saw something that could have been mashed potatoes, if not for the unhealthy grey colour. He gagged slightly and considered to throw the food at the walls, but decided it wasn’t a very good idea. So he put the tray back on the bed stand. He laid back on his bed and started thinking. The memory of him and his dying mother had come back and he had to admit that perhaps he had suppressed it. He hated to think of his mother. What he had said to her was true, he detested her. But what he hated the most was, that he could understand her now, he understood why she had cut herself. After her death he had started to cut himself too, not because he was sad or something like that, no, he made it because he was curious. He wanted to know why his mother had done it. And over time, he had started to enjoy the feeling of the knife slicing through his flesh, he had grown to love the sight of the thick red liquid on his pale skin, the contrast between the two strong colours. He had even started to paint pictures with his blood. But once, a horribly nosy neighbour had broken in his house while he was observing his flowing blood, so he could paint it later. She had immediately called the hospital and the police and pretty much everybody else she knew and they had taken him to this place. At the beginning, he had still tried to explain that he wasn’t suicidal but no one had listened to him. And he had given up. He had no hopes that one day, he could leave that terrible place, he just knew he was going to die in here. He knew it because he was going to kill himself. He had planned it for so long and now, finally, he could set his plan in action. Carefully he took a little bowl from under his bed and to count the pills. He had collected pills in every size, colour and form. He had small blue rectangles, round green balls and huge red ovals. He wasn’t sure how many he would need, so he just went on collecting every pills he could get his hands on. He had decided that with fifty pills he would be save. Up to now he had forty. Only a few weeks left, he told himself, then I’ll be gone. The weeks felt like years and every day he was just sitting there and waiting for the night to come. And then he dreamed, dreamed of his past, of the life he could have had, if not for his broken family, of things he had wanted to do and of places he was never going to see. When THE day had finally come, he considered writing a letter but he had nothing he wanted to say to anyone and he had no things he could bequeath, so he dismissed the ridiculous thought immediately. He woke up on early on day X and realized that ironically he had slept better than he had in years. He didn’t drink anything all day, so the pills would work better and faster. In the evening, when a nurse brought him dinner, he took the bowl from under his bed and took all of the pills into his hand. He could barely hold them all in one hand. He smiled a little and laughed softly. Finally. He picked the first pill of the colourful mess in his hand and swallowed it. He didn’t feel anything. He took the second one. Nothing. Then he took ten pills at once. Slowly he started to feel a little bit dizzy. He selected a dozen of the strongest, the red ones, and dropped them into a glass with water in it. He waited a few seconds, then he downed them. He stumbled to his bed and sat down. He opened his hand and looked at the few remaining pills. He felt a crazy laugh forming in his throat. He didn’t even try to suppress it. He laughed and laughed, until he suddenly started coughing. He felt his heartbeat slow down and his eyelids grow heavy. Ah, he thought, death’s coming to get me. His lips curled into a serene smile and he laid back onto his pillow. And for the first time for years, his world was white and he was happy about it.


End file.
